


Fading

by orphan_account



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: AnxiousChemist on Deviantart, CP- sound.mp3, Christianity, Creepypasta, Horror themed, M/M, Multiple Chapters leading to an eventual romance, Murder and Ghost Stuck in Limbo, Proxies, Questioned Homosexuality, Slenderman Proxies, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Church has been alive for centuries, awaiting the time where he finally receives the deliverance from evil and proceeds into the afterlife. No one was going to stop him, or so he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a vague prologue on the memory of a 123 year old boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I doubt this will get any amount of hits or kudos since this specific fandom (TicciChurch) is recognized at all! But nevertheless, enjoy :)

He couldn't take it anymore. He refused to deal with what they called normal. Reality is a choice, he said, it's only optional to live in the real world. All the questioning could be put aside because he was done. He was finished with society and wanted no part of it. None of its mirth and none of its strife. He would not be pulled down by the tethers of oppression and judgement. A constant fear that something terrible would lie in wait if he even made a single wrong move on the chess board of life. The all-seeing, all-hearing, all-knowing sentient that watched the believers like a hawk. Feet bunched up and ready to pounce on the chance that a disruption of social etiquette was broken. Because that's really all the religion was! Plainly focused on social biases and taboos. Anything that differed in the slightest from the norm was shunned and labeled unorthodox. 

So he was just done with all of it. It was pretty simple too, well it would've been had his journals not been discovered by his oh so reverenced leader of the church. The priest. The people he though were "good" said he only saw the good. But he only saw the worst in the unknown and he was frightened. Frightened of having a quote, creature, in his place of worship. Because he was different. He questioned the unquestionable. He doubted the undoubtable, and he tried to break limits that were being reinforced by the countless years of layer upon layer of method. Method that by now, could no longer be broken. Crafted by humans gripping to hope of the afterlife and making a safe and secure shell to live their pointless lives. That weren't really all that pointless, but it's more poetic. 

It's nice to live, it's nice to breath, it's nice to feel your heartbeat whenever you check your pulse. Never be ungrateful that as you walk down the streets and you walk your dog and you do regular humane things that pertain to the (once again) social stereotypes. Never, never, never end your life. You will regret it for as long as you continue. 

But now, he gripped to the hope of living in the afterlife as tightly as the bonds that strangled the religious community. It was pulled taught on his mind, restraining his decisions, making sure he did not sin. Because what destroyed him before his murder, now kept him from teetering over the edge of insanity. That single hope, the bright totem amongst miles of darkness. The prosperous above evil and the justice that he deserved. To rid of evil and gain the life that was stolen from him.

 

✖️✖️✖️

Church stared at the ceiling fan above him, watching intently as the blades sliced through the air and blew cold wind onto his overheated body. His palms were sweaty from where they gripped the red beads circling his hands and wrists. To rid himself of some warmth he'd removed his shirt and let sweat trail down his stomach. The sheets underneath of his body were damp and uncomfortable and the prospect of opening the bedside window began grow in appeal. 

The heat was sweltering and sickening and made his stomach flip and turn in nauseating rumbles. His vision was blurry and his entire body felt like it was being pulled down by lead weights. He was repeatedly brushing his thumb over the top of his hand, occasionally grazing the beads with the instinctive movement he had developed over the course of time in which he had been given them. A gift from the prayer leader at the attendees church. Though he could not exactly be considered as an attendee. 

He was a saint. He was an angel. He was a gift from the heavens. They said he was the incarnation of the father's son himself. His eyes crying the blood of the dead and set in perpetual mourning. He was their silent brother. He did not speak, nor did he make any acknowledgement that he heard the people as they bowed in front of him. The only way they knew he was alive was when he bent over and drizzled a light amount of holy water onto their backs or brushed charcoal across their foreheads. He have them the occasional smile, for he was the embodiment of kindness and the symbol of purity. Yet he was feared as well, they truly believed he was sent from the heavens. Bestowed upon this town for reason of great importance that still had not been discovered. He didn't like speaking to the people of the church and they did not speak to them. He doubted they knew he had a life outside divine worship. That he was caught in an endless limbo because God had yet to decide his fate. Or at least that is what he had thought.

Now all he had to do was wait. Just like he'd been doing for the past 123 years. Waiting, for his eternal torment to end. For now he would bide his time and deal with humanity's incompetence for a few centuries longer.


	2. commence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told the beginning was unclear, hopefully this repairs loose ends!

No one questioned his existence or asked why some shady teenager with white robes was hovering on the raised ground only the priests and church choir were allowed to stand. They didn't seem to think it odd that the person that cried tears of blood and helped the man of great preaching ability, carry out the duties of a ceremony. In contrary to that, he gave them the impression of comfort. He made them feel as if the holy father was genuinely watching over them, guiding them through their mistakes and their misgivings. 

He often felt guilty of assuming the role of a saint. Church had received no signs from God telling him to suddenly become so involved with the place. Though he could find no other means of employment that did not require him to sin, or let a white-skinned black-eyed creep into their workplace in the first place. It just happened, and it could really be considered a win win situation for both the church and himself. 

The was a quiet medium of chatter that echoed throughout the dark oak walls. The ratio of space to people was a great divide. The building considerably larger than the actual amount of fifty or so that sustained their weekly prayer. Disregarding the few persons that sometimes came to church to beg for something. He despised the people who only asked the holy father for something just because they were in need. Those kinds of people that skipped out on the donations and made excuses for not being present for the community events. It sickened him. How people could be so ungrateful. 

Church clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, listening to the prayers uttered by hopeful and mourning adults. He might've acted like it, but the effects of their words was no where near calming. He could honestly admit to himself that listening to all the grievances of other people always left him jaded and unsure on how to approach things. Something would happen and his view would be changed dramatically just because of the past experiences that were shared with him through tight lips and red-tinged eyes. He was afraid of the outcome and afraid to rely on his own gut feelings. It left him paranoid and uneasy as he waited for their whispering to stop. But he dealt with it, just like everything else he disliked. It was all, dealt with. Set aside to be dissected at a later date, letting him overthink for hours upon end over every little grievance. He supposed it wasn't the best thing for his health, to be keeled over against a wall groaning in pain about something that happened in the late past. He couldn't rewind the clock, but he sure as hell wished it. 

"Church." The pastor whispered, and his eyes flew open and met his reassuring eyes, easing away the wearied constriction. He always seemed to know when Church's morose attitude was swelling to a worrisome point. Verging on a complete lack of enthusiasm and snappish personality unsuitable for a religious audience. 

"My apologies, sir." Church said, letting out a deep breath and closing his eyes once again. He felt a gentle hand pat his shoulder and calmly walk away. How he kept his composure each and every Sunday was a mystery, at times Church wanted to explode with rage and storm away. The priest was aware of this and was entitled to calm his nerves before he became as keyed up as a horse on racing day. He supposed it came with the knowledge of the past, people's lives now we're so much more luxurious. He kept himself blasé in hopes of not angering the man upstairs. 

Church weaved past the line of bowed people, approaching the first man with a chalice of wine and a loaf of bread in his hands. Upholding the ecclesial traditions of the Christian faith. 

"Bless you," Church mumbled, tearing off the bread and leaning the cup down for the woman to dip it in. "Bless you." She returned, a smile to pasted to her weathered face. Her eyes glistened appreciatively and he missed a beat or two staring into the glassy surface. She'd seen a lot, he could tell. She knew of the wellsprings of pain and misery. Her years numbered in wisdom, he could relate to it. He beamed at her, his eyes knowingly turning to the next person. A girl of opposing age, probably seven or eight. Her flushed cheeks and curious orbs flickering every which way until landing on his own. She let out a frightened gasp, but her guileless quicksilver emotions morphed into an enormous grin. 

"Hi Church." She whispered, lifting a tiny hand and waving it profusely. Her chapped lips couldn't contain the few teeth that hung from her gums, forming the dimples on either cheek. 

"Hello Annabelle," He murmured, holding out a piece of bread, she wasn't allowed to dip it into the wine so he didn't move to hold it out, "Bless you." 

"Bless you Church." She giggled, popping the grain into her mouth and hopping off to her mother's lithe figure, sitting in a church pew a few paces away. Annabelle pointed to him and bounced over and over, clutching to her mother's shirt to gain her already captured attention. Her mother laughed and waved at him, which he replied with a small nod. The entire community if people knew him well. Church continued down the aisle, handing out the bread and letting a select few drink from the cup. Somehow he found it unsanitary, and wanted to smother their mouths in hand sanitizer, but that would be inappropriate so he relented to turning the chalice every time someone pressed their lips to the cool surface. When the cup was just about empty and the sea of people had returned to their seats, he padded quickly to the back room and put away the food. 

Just as he was opening the mahogany cabinet, a gust of cold wind suddenly hit him from behind. His spine immediately tensed. He whirled around, searching for the cause. The window was swung open, freezing air flowing teasingly around him and biting his goose flesh covered skin. That window was not open when he walked in. So who had the audacity to mess with him? His ears perked up to listen for any childish giggles carried by the wind, but all he heard was the crisp sound of air passing through the branches of outside trees. He frowned and returned to placing the bread onto the counter. He made sure to secure it tightly with a rubber band so no oxygen would get in and grow mold. 

"Hello." 

Church let out a small scream and launched himself into the air. His heartbeat was pounding rapidly in his chest, just about to burst into a bloodied mess on the tile floors. There, draping their arms over the window's edge, was a masked boy with bright, brown eyes hidden beneath orange goggles. Church instantly reached for the knife at his side, he was all too familiar with the likes of proxy. This one could be taken care of if he got too violent. Most of his experiences with Slenderman's kin were not friendly and he knew the Operator and himself were not on the greatest of terms. 

"Woah-ho-ho there cowboy, put the blade away. I won't try any funny business around you. Especially not in His house." The boy drawled. Sweeping a gloved hand in an arch to show that he meant no harm, "My intentions are all good! You've got nothing to worry about old man." 

"Old man?" Church retorted, advancing further with the knife held deftly in his hand. He was the lord's servant and he was obliged to dispose of any unwanted threats to the faith and its folk. That included all of the people standing just above him, stomping their feet to prayer hymns. 

"What? You aren't a hundred years old, and I thought I was inaccurate. The big boss better get his stuff together. Cause the bigger boss won't be happy with ta' wrong information about a certain someone!" The boy flicked Church's nose on the emphasis of someone. His one eyebrow raised playfully and a smirk probably dawning his covered guarded lips. 

"A hundred and twenty three," Church corrected, "What are you doing here, proxy? What does Slenderman want with me?"

The boy flipped his body over so his back was to the window sill, his hands placed loosely at his sides as if he was floating mid-air. "Your questions will be answer," He began slipping backwards, "...In good time." Before Church could protest, the boy bolted away with a single 'see you later old man'. The only evidence of his visit being the still open window, swinging on its hinges.


End file.
